Rumble
by noone2
Summary: Everyday hunting for the boys- just a shameless excuse to whump Dean and get Sam worrying. Epiogue now added This story is set season2ish before we got into the whole hell/heaven thing.
1. Running

**Rumble**

Author's note:- OK I have a million other things I should be writing. So I'd just like to say that I hate watching films particularly when a scene inspires me to put another character in the same predicament. With apologies to Rumble in the Bronx and Jackie Chan

Synopsis:- Everyday hunting for the boys- just a shameless excuse to whump Dean

Disclaimer:- This story is written as an homage to a great show and great characters in the hope that nobody minds.

Part 1

Dean ran. No, he sprinted forwards, ignoring the bone jarring pounding as his feet made too hard an impact with the sidewalk. Ignoring the heaving of his chest, the sweat dripping off his brow, the desperate screams for oxygen from his muscles. Instead his concentration was around him, above and below, left and right, his head and eyes continually moving, scanning, trying to figure out what would attack him next.

He leapt over the trashcan that fell into his path, and still it almost took him down as it changed the direction of its roll, aiming to take his feet out from under him even as he landed. He feinted left then took off to the right, skirting around a fixed bench that the trash can exploded into in a shriek of tearing metal.

He blocked out the sound and kept running, but his mind screamed at him that it was too close, that the next one would take him down. He was so screwed. The objects were getting closer, harder to dodge and he knew in part that was because he was tiring. He wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer. May not be able to keep this up for as long as Sam needed him to. He shook away the thought. That was not an option. He had to keep this thing distracted, had to keep it mad at him. Even if that meant that it threw everything on the block that wasn't nailed down at him. He had to keep going.

He ran down the middle of the street as out in the open as he could be in a town. There was no taking cover, not when whatever you took cover behind could be used as a weapon against you. Staying away from the buildings gave him time to dodge as objects shook lose from walls or flew through windows, doubling their deadly aim with shards of flying glass.

Damn this spirit was powerful, more powerful than they'd thought, more resourceful too, and quick, so goddamn quick. It flitted from object to object, from building to building faster than it had any right to, and Dean just knew he wasn't fast enough to keep dodging. . .Why hadn't it thrown anything else at him? Two big shop windows, a hanging sign. He slowed enough to turn full circle as he ran, scanning the area, wary for any movement. There was plenty of stuff that it could. . .Shit!! The truck was heading for him silently. It came from a side street, no engine, no driver, just a big fucking moving truck aimed straight at him. Dean turned away from it and ran, if he'd been sprinting before he was positively flying now, the adrenaline rush of fear heightening his senses as he moved. Faster, he pushed already screaming muscles to and past their limits. Not fast enough, faster. He could almost feel the looming presence press against his back as he ran. It was closing on him, it was moving faster than he could ever hope to.. . . He changed direction abruptly, hurling himself around a corner, and he was sure he felt the truck snag his heel as the sudden change of direction caused him to lose his footing. He went down in a rolling dive, not quite managing to finesse it so his shoulder took the brunt of the hit and he grunted with the pain. The truck couldn't make the narrow turn into the alley and it crunched hard into the wall on the opposite corner.

For a moment all Dean could hear was the cacophony of crunching as several tonnes of truck mashed into the brickwork mere feet from where he had landed. He took the opportunity to drag in desperate gasps of air, to fill his tortured lungs and then he pushed himself up stumbled a few steps forward through clouds of choking dust and smoke. He couldn't afford to stop; he had to keep moving even as he tried to clear the grit from his eyes, to gain a watery focus. He took a few more steps moving away from the deadly truck moving into the alley. Moving towards the solid brick wall.

Crap!

He turned back, the truck now blocked the narrow opening that he'd flung himself through, the only way in or out. And for a moment everything froze. He couldn't take a breath, couldn't move, couldn't think and that was so much better than what followed, because the desperate gulping, the cold sweat, the feeling of being crushed and of falling from a great height altogether in one incongruous ball of panic was so much worse, because Dean Winchester didn't panic. Even when he was trapped in a blind alley, the plaything of a fricking fast, fricking psyched, malevolent spirit he didn't panic.

He tried to slow his breathing, tried to get a grip on his thoughts on his fears, tried to persuade himself that if he could only think then there must be a way out of this but he couldn't quite . . .

It had him.

He was trapped.

And now it would play with him.

Seconds crawled by.

The dust settled.

There was silence.

Stillness.

Dean took a step back towards the wall. Slow tentative. He moved away from the truck, not taking his eyes off it. Absently he brushed some of the dust off his sleeve and drew in another slightly too fast breath.

The roll up side on the truck shot up with a crack like a rifle and Dean couldn't help the slight flinch in response to the sound. Then he stared at the exposed crates on the inside of the truck. Some were already overturned, liquid running from them through the now open side forming amber puddles. It was a delivery truck for a bar or liquor store, a truck full of bottles, glass bottles. Dean swore softly and took a glance at his watch, not long enough, Sam hadn't had long enough yet. He had to keep it distracted or it would kill Sam too.

Absently he wondered how long he would last.

The first bottle was aimed directly at his head and he dodged to the side, shielding his face with his hands as the bottle shattered on the wall behind him, sharp glass shards tearing past the side of his head as liquor rained on his back. He just had time to glance forward and dodge the next, bringing his arms up again to shield his eyes. He wasn't so lucky with the third, which hit his lower chest doubling him over in pain even as the bottle dropped to the floor and shattered. With effort he pushed himself upright and managed a dodge before the next hit him on the shin, shattering with the force of impact. He avoided a couple more successfully at least on their way in. He felt more than one sharp pain in his upper arm as shards cut through the thin cloth of his shirt and he regretted discarding his leather jacket at the start of the run. The next bottle hit his arm and bounced off to a glancing blow on his temple and after that he pretty much lost the score. He tried to keep upright, tried to keep moving but the pain of impact was too much, another one hit his arm, this time smashing it back into his nose and he dropped to his knees, glass grinding through his jeans causing him to drop and roll away from the pain and into more as another bottle hit his shoulder.

He was too out of it to realise that that was the last. The next bottle dropped to the floor by the truck before it could be aimed. Too out of it to answer his cell as Sam tried to ring him, tried to check on him.

The ritual was over the spirit had been banished back to hell and Sam needed to hear Dean tell him that it was a piece of cake, that he had been worrying for nothing. That going with Dean's crazy plan to piss the spirit off enough to go after him so that Sam could perform the banishment ritual without it realising what was happening, wasn't so crazy after all, but Dean wasn't answering his cell.

Dean was lying in an alley in a pool of blood and liquor, of filth and broken glass, of fear and pain. Halfway between consciousness and oblivion he tried to move, because he knew somehow that it was important. He fought because he knew he had to hang on, had to keep moving, keep dodging, had to give Sammy time. Pain flared from everywhere stealing his focus and still he tried to move because. . .because. . .He couldn't remember. Tears of frustration pricked at the edges of already blurred vision. He crawled one more inch forwards pain flaring. It was too much, blackness swallowed what little consciousness remained and his head dropped to the ground as his body finally went limp.

TBC- well I can't end it there can I?


	2. Chasing

**Part 2**

Sam ran. No, he sprinted forwards, ignoring the bone jarring pounding as his feet made too hard an impact with the sidewalk. Ignoring the heaving of his chest, the sweat dripping off his brow, the desperate screams for oxygen from his muscles. Instead his concentration was around him, above and below, left and right, his head and eyes continually moving, scanning, trying to figure out where his brother was.

The trail hadn't been difficult to follow. The debris and destruction littered the sidewalks on both sides of the street.

Sam had moved slowly at first. His eyes held by each object, every pot, every stone, every block of wood that had been hurled at his brother only to crack against a wall or smash through a window when it had missed, the broken shards only sometimes recognisable, were testament to the violent energy that had thrown them. Sam saw his brother running and dodging, weaving a zigzagging path forwards, staying ahead, just barely of the mayhem in his wake. Frequently changing direction to throw the thing off. Sam didn't notice when he'd started jogging, moving more quickly, more fearfully forwards. There was so much of it, so many things that had been thrown at Dean, so many twists and turns that he'd been forced to make, the path of destruction stretching on seemingly forever.

Sam cursed himself for starting out so slowly, almost in a daze as he'd taken in the destruction. The fear took hold properly now, his blood suddenly running like ice through his veins. The ritual had taken him twenty-two minutes. Dean had faced twenty-two minutes of this. He wouldn't have been walking, or jogging. He had been running, running for his life and wherever he was now, he wasn't answering his cell and he hadn't come back which meant he couldn't come back, and, God, he was at least twenty two minutes of running away, and Sam was sprinting now. Stretching out his long legs because he had to find Dean, had to know. . .

When he saw the truck he stopped, not dead in his tracks that was impossible from an all out sprint unless you hit a wall, not that it didn't feel like he'd hit one as the air suddenly became almost impenetrably thick around him, but he stumbled a few steps forward before he managed to halt. He bent over at the waist, hands on his knees and drew in a couple of deep lungfulls of air before he allowed himself to look up again. His hair dropped over his eyes obscuring some of the view, but not enough. The truck was there, mashed into the wall and this was where the trail of destruction ended. He pushed himself upright again, hands on hips, his nostrils still flaring as his lungs demanded more oxygen, and he tried to deny what his eyes were showing him, but he couldn't. It ended here, ended with the smashed truck, the street clean and clear beyond. Dean was here.

Tears pricked at the edges of his vision, "Dean," dropping softly from his lips as he stared at the wreckage and tried not to see. If the truck had. . .If Dean was. . .He didn't want to take the next step forward, didn't want to move, didn't want to know, because if he didn't know then he could pretend. . .but there was a discrepancy between what he wanted and what he needed, because God he needed to know, and for a moment it tore his insides apart, ripping and twisting and burning, and he went from being unable to move to another desperate sprint forwards in the split of a second. He scrambled round to the front of the truck, scanning it, scanning underneath, desperately searching for some sign that his brother was there, desperately hoping not to find it.

Nothing, no blood, no crushed flesh, no mangled limbs, no sign of anyone. Just dripping amber liquid and the strong smell of beer and spirits from the smashed crates in the back of the truck. Sam fairly melted with relief. Leaning back against the truck with his eyes closed as he tried to settle the churning maelstrom of emotion.

But where's Dean? The question crawled forward through his mind, scrabbling over fears, swimming through the pools of relief until it reached the front. Where is Dean?

Sam stood and looked round. There was nothing more out here. He had to get on the other side of the truck. He contemplated scrambling underneath, there should be enough clearance but. . He stepped up to the cab, tugged on the handle and the door opened. He hauled himself up and across the seat past the mangled steering wheel, and then his attention was focussed on getting the passenger door open. It was more damaged than the driver's side and it took a couple of tries before Sam managed to force it open. It was only then that he looked up, only then that he saw his brother, lying face down in a pool of liquor and glass stained red with blood, and there was nothing soft about the cry of "Dean!" that was ripped from his lips.

TBC


	3. Finding

Part 3

"Dean!"

Sam ran forward, his feet crunching through the broken glass, his heart pounding, blood rushing thunderously past his ears as he watched and listened for any sign of response from his brother. "Dean," he repeated, again and again as he got closer each repeat softer than the last.

He came to a cautious halt next to his unresponsive brother, fear twisting his gut into painful knots. His eyes searched wildly across the still, bloodied form and he tried not to acknowledge the fear of loss that drove his rapid movements, because Dean couldn't be. . .he just couldn't.

Sam's chest constricted and somehow it became much harder to take a breath. He was close enough now to reach out and touch Dean, to find out for sure if. . .

He swallowed, hesitating, part of him afraid to make that touch because if Dean was dead then he really didn't want to know because he wouldn't. . . couldn't handle. . . If it was bad then not knowing was better right? He could live in that limbo couldn't he? He could. . . and then the question became academic Dean's erratic breaths were bubbling into the pool of liquid that he was lying in, and although Sam knew that was not good, the confirmation that Dean was still breathing took Sam's own breath and he had to suck in a sharp gasp, swearing softly on the exhale, relief hitting his system in a tidal wave of emotional response, washing down through his senses making him momentarily giddy. Dean was alive! He was still alive!

Then the urgency took over again and his mind screamed at his body to move. The pool of liquid wasn't quite a half-inch, and vaguely in the back of his mind somewhere the fact that you needed a half-inch of liquid to drown in was repeating itself, but he wasn't willing to test that theory with his brother's life.

He squatted down, lifting Dean's head enough to get his nose and mouth out of the mire of dirt and alcohol that was seeping into his lungs with each laboured breath. He desperately scanned for a clear patch of ground so he could roll and lift his brother out of the glass that was cutting into his flesh, but there was none. Any movement involved a roll into more sharp fragments, more cuts and there were so many already. God Dean!

He glanced around quickly one more time. There was only one way to go. He positioned himself carefully so that he could roll Dean and grab him under the arms in one smooth movement, pushing himself to near upright so that only Dean's heels would drag along the ground as he pulled him out. It was hard, his muscles shook with the effort of taking both his and his brother's dead weight from squatting to standing, and he was sure that he didn't have a good enough grip, that Dean would slip from his fingers and fall back into the deadly bed of glass. So he gripped and pressed harder than he should in desperation, willing for Dean not to fall, pressing still harder as he felt his fingers move across the cloth of his brother's shirt with each awkward backward step down the alley. His grip became more tenuous and by the time Dean's heels were clear of the main cluster of glass he was sure he was going to drop him and he couldn't let that happen, not until Dean was safe from further injury. Awkwardly, he ducked down and shifted forward, leaning his brother against him, threading his arms under Dean's shoulders and linking his hands in front around Dean's chest.

He could feel the liquid as dampness seeped through his shirt, felt a sharp pinch of pain as glass cut into him, his head so close to his brother's that he could see and smell the blood, the odour curling around the pungent smell of liquor. "Damn it Dean," he whispered softly. "I told you this was a stupid idea."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

"It's a dumb idea Dean," Sam said, turning to stare at his brother.

Dean dropped into the wooden armchair with a weary sigh. "Well if you've got a better one I'm waiting to hear it."

Sam continued to stare, frustration clear on his features as he tried to think of some reasonable alternative to his brother's clearly insane plan, but since he hadn't come up with anything in the last two hours the next minute was not likely to yield better results.

"I thought not," Dean stated, trying not to sound too smug as he leaned forward, partly because he knew Sam was right it was a stupid, possibly even slightly insane plan, to the point of being suicidal, but Dean wasn't going to go there. They had had plans in the past that had been more risky. . .as risky. . .hadn't they? "Anyway it's not as if we've never done anything like this before."

"Yes, Dean but the last time you played bait dad was around." Sam watched the familiar flicker of emotion that briefly clouded Dean's expression whenever the shadow of their father entered the conversation, but there was something else this time, memories? Pain? Something that had happened while he was away at Stanford?

Bait? . . More times than you know Sammy, more times than you know.

Curiosity almost got the better of Sam and he almost asked, but it was just a distraction from his main point and he regretted mentioning it. He didn't really need anything else clouding the issue. "You'll be on your own, for however long it takes me to perform the banishment ritual." He paused waiting until Dean's eyes locked on his. "This spirit kills Dean, and you want to get it mad at you?"

"How long will the ritual take?" Dean asked, his tone all too innocent.

It was an obvious non sequitur but Sam allowed it. He glanced across to the open books on the table and considered for a moment. "Twenty, maybe thirty minutes tops?"

"And how long before this spirit figures out what's going on and comes to stop you before you can finish?"

"I don't. . ."

"That's it you don't know, and if it figures out what you're doing, trust me you will be a damn sight easier to kill than I will, or did you forget that there were three daggers involved in this ritual, and this spirit throws inanimate objects around as it's main modus operandi."

"Then at least let me do the running and you do the ritual?" Sam offered

Was Sam crazy? It was his job to take the risks, him who should be put in danger, not Sam, never Sam. Dean had to protect. . ."And why would I let you do that?"

"Because I can run faster than you. . ."

Dean grinned derisively "In your dreams Sammy boy, only in your dreams, however," he continued before Sam could argue the point. "You are better at Latin than I am, which is why you should do the ritual, college boy."

"Hey I'm not the one who just used Latin in the middle of a sentence," Sam countered.

The comment caught Dean off guard for a moment. "I did not."

"Modus operandi?" Sam offered, his own grin forming in anticipation of his win.

"That is not Latin," Dean stated confidently.

"Then what is it?"

Dean stood. "That Sammy is pure eighties cop show."

"Eighties cop show is not a language"

"Tell that to Don Johnson." Dean said turning and heading for the table where several books and manuscripts were still spread out. He leaned his arms down and appeared to study the material as he waited for Sam to join him. "Seriously dude," Dean said looking up to meet his brother's gaze once more, "short of salting and burning the kid, what else can we do?"

Sam knew Dean was right, but that didn't mean he had to like it. This spirit had attached itself to a seven year old boy, so getting rid of the object it was attached to wasn't an option, but the boy wasn't possessed as such, so a standard exorcism wasn't going to cut it. In fact it had taken a lot of research to find the ritual they had. One that would allow them to transfer the spirit to another object, one which they could then destroy. Trouble was it was a long ritual and while they were performing it the spirit would be free to do whatever it wanted.

"I still don't see why it has to be you." Sam stated. "We should at least toss a coin for it."

Dean shook his head. "Nah, we know this thing goes after anyone who upsets or hurts the kid, and we both know that isn't a job for you." He paused long enough to enjoy Sam's look of puzzlement. "You'd never be able to upset him enough. Puppies and children love you. I think it's something to do with the hair, or maybe those puppy dog eyes or the way you look when you pout."

"Dean," warningly.

"There it is you're doing it now, bottom lip out. . ."

"Dean!" Sam interrupted and there was enough of a dangerous edge to stop his brother this time. Sam regretted it as the teasing twinkle left his brother's eyes, somehow Dean only ever looked truly happy when he was behaving like a kid.

Dean looked down at the table giving a short soft sigh, and when his eyes came back up they were deadly serious. "So, are we doing this?"

Sam nodded soberly. "Yes," he replied, "but it's still a stupid plan."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Sam was concentrating so hard on each individual step he didn't realise he was clear until his back foot hit the wall he'd been aiming for. As gently as he could he shifted round Dean, straddling him so that he could lower him to a slumped seated position against the wall. Then he knelt beside him, giving the side of his face a gentle tap. "Dean, Dean come on," he tried.

Nothing, dammit! This was not good, and the longer Dean was out the less good it was likely to be. Come on Dean it's time to wake up now.

Then again, maybe not, Sam found himself scanning Dean's head and face first, noticing the blood running from his nose and from a small cut on his forehead, the blood that was slowly congealing in his hair, the multiple cuts on his torso and back all oozing blood onto his torn shirt. The holes in his jeans where ground glass still stuck to flesh and cloth in a bizarre pair of red and blue kneepads.

Shit Dean, this is gonna hurt.

For a moment all Sam could do was stare, overwhelmed by the extent of his brother's injuries, by their position in the alley, by the fact that his brother was most definitely alive, but the fear of loss that had coiled itself around his soul wouldn't quite dissipate as it should. It held him transfixed, impotent, unable to help, unable to do what was needed, and it was only Dean's sharp intake of breath, the shift and start as he came to that snapped Sam back.

"Dean?"

Dean's return to consciousness was an abrupt adrenaline driven woosh of tangled sensation and memories, of fear and reaction. He scooted back bringing his arms up to his face. He knew there was danger, something to fear but he couldn't quite focus on the what. He just knew that he had to protect himself, protect his head, his face. He flinched back from a shadow.

Sam's heart constricted at the reaction. "Dean," he called again a little louder. "Dean it's alright you're safe. It's over. Dean!"

"Sam?" Dean lowered his arms enough to see over the top, relieved beyond belief to see his brother. He had vague memories of not being able to do something for long enough, of letting Sam down, of putting him in danger. "Sam," he lowered his arms more, forcing a bleary focus on his brother. "I'm sorry," he stated. "Are you OK?" He studied him, "You're bleeding!"

Sam looked down at his shirt; it was a bloodied mess. "No Dean," he stated with exasperation. "It's not mine. I'm fine."

"Really?" Dean asked, studying the bloodied shirt for a moment more before meeting Sam's gaze again.

"Really." Sam stated, relieved at the signs of coherence, maybe it wasn't that bad. "How are you doing?"

Dean didn't answer straight away, shifting slightly and wincing at the flashes of pain from every part of him. Confused thoughts and images tumbled through his head as he tried to focus.

"Dean?"

Sam? Dean's gaze came up again from where it had drifted. Sam was there and he needed to tell him something. He'd let the spirit get the better of him, hadn't given Sammy enough time. "I'm . . .I'm Sorry," he finally offered.

That was the second 'I'm sorry.' What the hell was he apologising for? Scratch that, just what the hell? This was Dean Winchester and he didn't normally apologise for anything, especially not to his younger brother. Sam tried to cover the panicked edge to his tone, difficult in the face of constricting throat muscles. "It's OK, How are you feeling?" He asked again

There was no answer. Dean stared at him blankly for a moment, confusion clouding his eyes, and Sam wasn't sure he even understood the question.

"Dean do you remember what happened?" Sam asked

Dean glanced down, when his eyes came back up they were still confused and then the apology came again in the same contrite tone. "I'm Sorry."

Shit. Dean wasn't even answering the question. Didn't seem to even know he'd been asked a question. "What are you apologising for?"

Dean's eyes went wide as he studied his brother. "Sam you're bleeding!"

Double shit, they'd done this already. "No Dean it's not mine."

"Not yours." Dean repeated, giving a weak, rasping cough. "Not yours?" he asked

"Not mine." Sam looked around despairingly at the truck blocking the alley. He had to get his brother out of here.

TBC


	4. Helping

**Part 4**

Sam turned his attention back to Dean and couldn't help the expletive that dropped from his lips. There was no way he was going to be able to get Dean past that truck not on his own, let alone back to the car, which meant the only option was to get help, and not the type of help he could wait for. Dean was disoriented and confused, on top of the many other injuries, which meant he had a concussion or was going into shock, probably both. He needed more than just patching up with the first aid kit this time.

"Sam?" Dean asked again as though he'd only just realised his brother was there.

"Yeah Dean I'm here and I'm not hurt OK?" Sam gripped his brother's hand and gave it a squeeze of reassurance.

"'K" Dean managed before he started coughing, rasping and wet and pitifully weak.

Sam felt Dean's grip tighten around his own, his face contorted with pain as torn skin was forced to move.

Sam held on, riding out the coughing fit with him, unable to touch his brother anywhere else unable to offer further comfort for fear of causing more damage. It was rare that he felt this helpless, rare that he saw his brother injured in a way where he couldn't hide it, and the vulnerability was still startling. Even now, even after he'd seen his brother close to death more than once. Dean's normal casual air of strength was so much a part of him that having it dropped still had the power to shock. Sam swallowed, grateful as the coughing eased. "Just hang in there," he soothed, "Help's coming."

Sam flipped open his cell

"Help's coming?" Dean repeated, meeting Sam's gaze. He gave a slight shake of his head. "Help's here," he stated confidently.

Sam met his brother's gaze swallowing back the lump in his throat. Yeah help was here but not enough, not this time. There was just too much. Their dad had taught them well, field medicine for everything from a knife wound to a gunshot, but he'd also taught them the point at which they needed to rely on others, to get to hospital. There was a line and Dean was well across it. "Yeah Dean, I'm here." Sam stated, pushing the buttons on his cell, his hand squeezing closed as he hit dial and waited for an answer.

The fire department arrived first, they usually did, a good thing in this case because it meant that by the time the ambulance got there the truck had already been towed back out of the way. Sam stayed close, not close enough to get in the way but close enough to respond if his brother began to fight the help, but he wasn't needed, despite Sam's best efforts to keep him awake, Dean had lost consciousness about five minutes before the paramedics arrived.

It had been a long five minutes. Talking to a Dean who couldn't keep track of the conversation had been painful enough. Sitting there holding on to your brother's hand while he slowly bled to death through wounds that you couldn't press on for fear of crushing glass into them was almost unbearable. When the paramedics did finally arrive they found him concentrating on pulling small pieces of glass free with shaky hands because he couldn't just do nothing.

He wasn't quite sure how he made it to the hospital. He couldn't fit in the ambulance with his brother and the paramedic and he remembered the wrench of watching it drive off without him. He thought maybe someone had given him a lift? Didn't matter because what mattered was Dean. He told the receptionist who he was, why he was there and she handed him some forms to fill in for his brother.

He'd been here before, not this place, not this exact injury but he'd been here nonetheless. He knew they wouldn't let him through to be with Dean, to see his brother, but familiarity didn't make it hurt any less, didn't make him regret for just a moment getting the help, because he could have run the two miles and got the Impala, dragged his brother under the truck while more glass cut into him, taken Dean back to the motel and spent the next ten hours pulling the glass out himself with tweezers, never sure without X-rays whether he'd got it all, because his hand would have been steady enough even with Dean in excrutiating pain: It would have been. He could have taken the risk that the fluid in his lungs wouldn't cause more breathing problems, that the shock and concussion would clear themselves with rest and fluids. He could have done all that. He could and then he wouldn't have had to put up with this crazy separation anxiety.

He bowed his head, his wrists resting loosely on his knees as he allowed the clipboard and pen to droop between them. No, this was where his brother needed to be right now, and he would just have to live with his emotions until they let him through to see him.

"Are you Sam?"

Sam looked up to see the nurse staring down at him. He nodded "Yes I. . ."

"Then you need to come with me," she stated not hiding the urgency in her tone.

Sam stood and followed, his anxiety ratcheting up with every rapid pace.

A young doctor stepped out of the treatment room as they approached. "Sam?" he asked looking at the nurse first for confirmation before looking at Sam himself.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed, desperately wanting to push past the doctor to get to Dean. It was cruel to bring him so close. He couldn't even see through the door, but he managed to control himself, to force himself to talk to the doctor. "Look my brother. . ."

"Has many injuries as I'm sure you're aware, but our main problem at the moment is getting him calmed down. He's very confused and he seems convinced that something has happened to you. That he didn't give you enough time for something." The doctor watched the understanding dawning in Sam's eyes, that's what he'd been apologising for, but he didn't push for an explanation. "So I'm going to let you in there so he can see you, but you need to stay back out of the way while we deal with his injuries. Understood?"

Sam didn't trust himself to speak so he just nodded.

The doctor seemed satisfied and turned to head back into the room.

Dean had taken advantage of the fact that the doctor had left and had managed, despite the two nurses best efforts to discourage him, to swing his legs round so they were dangling off the treatment table and he was now sitting upright, if swaying slightly.

He wasn't sure of much at the moment, thoughts dancing through his consciousness in fragments, but the bits he got scared him. Sam wasn't there. He hadn't given him long enough. Something was. . .Sam wasn't there. He needed to find Sam.

"Dean."

Dean looked up and managed to focus for a moment. "Sam?" The relief was instantaneous. Sam was there. Sam was OK, nothing else mattered.

"It's OK, I had enough time, I'm OK," Sam reassured, answering the questions before Dean asked them. He eased his brother's shoulder's round as he spoke, the nurses helping to bring his legs up.

"Dean," the doctor spoke from the opposite side of the bed, when Sam had coaxed him to a more settled position. "I'm Dr. Finch," Dean sluggishly turned to face him. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital?"

"Do you know which town?"

There was a hesitation, an attempt at concentration."Enterprise?"

Sam almost swore, the doctor looked up at him. "Enterprise Oregon, we were there about three weeks ago," and hadn't that led to a million and one Star Trek references for the duration of the job, but dammit three weeks! "We're on a road trip," Sam added as though that explained everything and it usually did thanks to Hollywood. It was one reference everybody got and most people accepted without question.

The doctor nodded frowning briefly before he turned his attention back to Dean.

Dean didn't do much better on the rest of the questions the only things he seemed relatively sure of was his own name and Sam's, and Sam had to keep reminding him he was there.

There were several times over the next few hours when Sam actually wished for the anxiety and detachment of the waiting room. Where he wouldn't have to watch the team of doctor's and nurses digging through his brother's flesh to pull out fragments of glass, where he wouldn't have to see the pain contort his brother's face as he coughed in a way that was far too weak to be his brother, his brother who'd been fine that morning. Wouldn't have had to watch the ugly bruises forming on Dean's torso and back. Wouldn't have to see the sweat beading on the medical team's faces after so long at the delicate painful work. Wouldn't have to hear the panic in his brother's voice when he forgot Sam was there, or hear him give the wrong answer to questions yet again, deepening the doctor's frown the longer it went on.

By the time they'd finished and Dean, swathed in bandages was settled in bed Sam was exhausted, physically from muscles tensed too long in worry, mentally from the anxiety and fear and relief and. . .Damn he hated this, hated seeing his brother in pain, hated seeing him so weak. Dean was always the strong one, always had been, and he relied on that, more than he admitted to sometimes. Seeing him like this was just so wrong on so many levels and it wasn't over yet. There was the danger of infection, the fluid on the lungs increased the risk of pneumonia, the head injury wasn't sorting itself out, and there was some worry about his brother walking for a while on knees that were just so much hamburger.

Sam checked his brother was still sleeping and then dropped his head into his hands. Dean would be all right. He had to be all right. The exhaustion had lowered his defences and several tears leaked from scratchy eyes as he repeated the mantra.

TBC


	5. Leaving

**Part 5**

Sam shouldn't have been surprised; his arrest was inevitable so he really shouldn't have been surprised by it. His dad had taught him better, had taught him and Dean how to stay under the radar, when to get out of town, exactly how long they could outstay their welcome for, but none of it counted, not this time. Dean was just too sick for him to go anywhere. He couldn't, wouldn't willingly leave his brother's side, not through the confusion and the pain, not through the slow slip into the coma, the hook up to the respirator, the fever, the confirmation of pneumonia. He couldn't leave, not until they came to take him away.

The doctors and nurses had, for some reason that Sam couldn't quite understand, helped him to avoid the sheriff's department for as long as they could, letting him stay close to Dean so he didn't really question it. He didn't hear their whispered conversations about care and devotion and need; he wasn't supposed to, wasn't supposed to know that they watched him with his brother and were so touched by the depth of emotion that was betrayed by his every look and gesture that they tried to protect him.

It was in vain. The damage to the town was too obvious, the people of the business district screaming for blood, for someone to take the blame for their ruined property and Sam and Dean had been found at the end of the trail of destruction.

So Sam shouldn't have been surprised when they came for him, but he was. Surprised when they read him his rights, surprised when they put the cuffs on, surprised when they began to lead him away from his brother's bed.

"Please," it was the first words he had spoken to them, his hands already cuffed behind his back by the time reality broke through the haze of anxiety and despair. It was as close to begging as he'd ever come. "I'll give you any statements you want. I'll cooperate fully, but please I need to stay with him. I need to be with him in case. . .until . . . Please I can't leave him."

"Don't worry," the Sheriff's reply was dispassionate, jaded from too many years dealing with people whose promises were largely lies. "Your brother will be joining you as soon as he's well enough."

Surprised when they locked a cuff to the side of Dean's bed and slid the other around Dean's bandaged wrist.

"What the. . . ." The anger surged through Sam like a torrent. Emotional defences exhausted by the many hours of worry and the creeping despair as Dean's condition, despite the doctors best efforts, worsened. The anger swept up all the negative emotion, channelled it and gave it a false focus. He couldn't let these people take him away from his brother. Couldn't leave Dean here, not only alone and slipping away from life, but chained to a bed. His brother did not deserve that fate.

"No!" Sam shouted, making a move back towards the bed. "Don't. . .You can't.. . ." Hands grabbed at him as he began to fight, but, even with his hands shackled behind his back and blind rage fuelling his actions, Sam was a skilled fighter. The Sheriff and one of his Deputies went down, and Sam was headed for the deputy by Dean's bed, body slamming him into the wall and away from Dean before hands grabbed him from behind and tackled him to the floor. Even then as the weight of several men pinned Sam to the ground he would have continued to fight, but the alarms hooked up to the machines keeping his brother alive began to sound.

They were still sounding, the medical team rushing in to work on Dean, to try to bring him back, as the Sheriff stood wiping his bloody lip. "Get him out of here," he ordered.

The words didn't register on Sam's stunned consciousness until he felt himself being dragged away. "No! Please. . .Dean, No," Sam tried to fight it, tried to re-channel the anger, but the pain and despair were winning out, his fragile grip on hope sapped by too many hours of waiting, of worsening. There were too many of them to fight and not enough strength left to fight them with. "You can't . . .I need . . ." He was out of sight now, on the corridor and he knew he couldn't let them drag him away without knowing without being there. . .when . . if. . .

He dropped, becoming an instant dead weight that they couldn't hold. It gave him the momentary advantage he needed to slip free. To stand, to head back to Dean to. . .The pain hit hard in his back and he dropped to the floor twitching as the tazer slammed electricity through his system and still he fought to get up, to get back to Dean. The pain hit again. Sam gritted his teeth fought it, again. . .again. . and then there really was nothing left to fight with, no way he could do more, and they dragged him away and he didn't know. He still didn't know.

Dean?

TBC


	6. Losing

Chapter 6

Author's note: Many apologies to anyone who thinks I have abandoned this and my other unfinished stories. I haven't been well and so have not been writing, but I've written close to 3000 words this week on this and other things so hopefully postings will be coming much more frequently. If you've been waiting and are now reading this, thanks for your patience. I hope you like it. Let me know- J

Sam was being dragged through the entrance by the time his senses settled down enough for him to focus. He tried to catch his feet under him but his muscles still wouldn't quite obey the signals his brain was sending, a tingling sensation that was a bizarre mix somewhere between numbness and pain ran up and down his spine. He was seated in the police car by the time he felt even vaguely back in control.

"Please," he asked and his voice came out way too quiet. "Please," he tried again as the Sheriff settled into the passenger seat in front. ". . my brother. . ." He forced more air behind the words but the dryness in his throat and mouth made his voice sound cracked and broken.

"Won't be causing anyone any trouble any more," the Sheriff stated turning his head, even without the anger his features would have stood out as harsh in the exaggerated contrast of the street lighting which was all that now illuminated the car's interior.

Sam tried really hard to find some moisture, to lick his lips to ask the question that was impossible to ask because he didn't want to hear the answer that had already been implied, and so all he could do was run a dry tongue over dry lips then softly mouth the words that would not come, because, as much as he did not want to know, he needed to know.

The Sheriff didn't need the question; he was enjoying this too much. This guy deserved the pain and devastation that he was clearly feeling, deserved it because of the trouble he and his brother'd caused. Whatever they got they deserved. The Sheriff would be up for re-election in two short months and he was counting on this term to be his last before he retired. He'd just about have enough money then to fund his dream place down in Arizona, no more cold winters for him. No, he was going to trade his quiet job in a sleepy cold town for a quiet retirement in a sleepy warm town, but not if he didn't get re-elected. His retirement fund didn't have enough in it yet. So he needed this next term and these two outsiders, had taken an unquestioned dead cert and made people ask questions of the sort he didn't need asked.

These two could have ruined his future, so whatever he did to them was fair play in his book.

The truth was he hadn't hung around long enough to find out what had happened to the other yahoo. If the machines were beeping and they needed to jump start his heart then he sure wasn't going to be up to being brought in and locked up anytime soon, and that was the only thing that concerned the sheriff, having someone behind bars in his jail so he could tell the local businesses that the crime was solved, that someone was going to pay for all the damage that had been done. If the other boy lived then he'd come back for him, but for now he had what he wanted, and so the truth played little part in his thinking, vengeance for a perceived hurt was all that did.

"Your brother's dead," the sheriff stated bluntly. "That's what happens when you come in and wreck someone else's town." He stared directly into Sam's eyes, watching the flash of denial as Sam's head shook, the no barely forming on his lips, and then there was nothing but pain and despair. "I hope you're proud of yourself," the sheriff stated, watching the colour drain from Sam's features.

Sam's gaze dropped away as he tried to deal with the overwhelming surge of emotions. Dean was. . .his mind wouldn't, couldn't acknowledge the enormity of the loss, the chasm that was opening inside threatening to swallow his consciousness. Part of him didn't want to believe it, wanted to continue the denial but. . .Oh God! Dean! What could he. . .Dean!

He'd spent the last few hours in the hospital trying to prepare himself for this, knowing that it might come. The preparation should have made it easier, should have reduced the knife of sorrow that cut down through his ribs; that churned his intestines and bit into his heart. Something should have made this easier, knowing it was coming should have cut back the pain of losing Dean, but it wasn't . . .he couldn't. . . .breaths wouldn't come. Pain stronger than anything physical was tearing him up from the inside out and he couldn't. . .He needed Dean to be there for him to help him, to give him the strength to get through this. He needed Dean, and Dean would never be there for him again, and he couldn't take that because he needed him. God, he needed. . .

Just one tear fell. It rolled slowly down his cheek, solitary and alone, and Sam knew he was alone too now. It was his last real thought before his mind spiralled into a well of despair.

If the sheriff spoke to him again Sam didn't notice.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

Idly it occurred to Sam that he should probably try to get out of the prison. That if Dean could see him lying down and accepting everything that was thrown at him then he would sure as Hell kick his butt for it, but since Dean wasn't around and never would be again Sam figured it didn't matter.

Maybe he would do something about it, sometime, maybe. He couldn't find it in himself to care enough.

There was no emotion, just numbness.

Occasionally a dull ache threatened to break through but most of the time there was nothing, just a big hole where his emotions should be, and that was OK because the only emotion that had threatened in the last. . .how long was it? Couple of days maybe. . .The only other emotion that had threatened to fill that hole had been anger, spectacular, fill the room, bathe everything in a red haze, kick the place to hell and damn the consequences anger. That was why he was now sitting in solitary, with his knuckles bruised, bloody and bandaged and his ankles and wrists in chains- that was going to make the escaping bit a little more difficult when he got around to feeling up to doing it that was- but he deserved it.

He couldn't even remember what the other guy at dinner had done or said to him but he was fairly sure they said he was in the infirmary, would be for a while. Sam knew he should feel guilty about that. Hell he knew he should feel a lot of things, knew he should be doing a lot of things, including getting out of here, reclaiming Dean's. . .getting Dean the Hell out of this cheap town's hospital, taking care of his brother for the last time in the only way that he. . .the hole threatened to close up again, to let the emotion in, to move past the soothing numbness but something stopped it.

His mind did a now familiar abrupt jump to focus thoughts on something trivial, like how much force it would take to pull apart one of the links on the chain that connected his wrists. He locked his hands around the chains wrapping each one twice and then he pulled. His teeth gritted, muscles straining from the effort. He pulled until the chains dug red patterns into his palms and the back of his hands, 'til his muscles protested the pain from straining so hard. He continued pulling long past when good sense would have normally told him to stop, pulled until he physically couldn't pull any more and he collapsed back panting against the wall, his hands dropping to his lap, his fingers tingling with numbness from the lack of circulation. The exertion felt good, but more than that the pain felt good and a small part of him knew just how screwed up that was, knew just how screwed up this whole thing was. Now if only he cared enough to do something about it.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	7. Hoping

Author's note: Could make excuses for the long delay, not been well, personal problems yada yada, but you've heard it all before. All I can promise is that I will write when I can and I hope you enjoy the results. Let me know J

**Chapter 7 Hoping**

Dean moved as stealthily as his aching body would allow. Getting to this point had already taken him too damn long and any patience that he had, and for Dean that wasn't much, had given way to frustration and anger long ago. He wasn't up to this, his wounds too far from healed, his chest still bruised from the shocks that had restarted his heart, his lungs still congested as hell and his fever barely broken but there was no way in Hell he could lie in that bed any longer. Not when Sam was. . . and that was part of the problem right there, in his drugged fevered delirium, half the time he had Sam lying dead, killed by a freakish poltergeist that he hadn't managed to distract for long enough, the guilt of his failure overwhelming his senses and pulling him down further. The other half he had vague recollections, no more than fleeting images, that Sam had been there, with him. He heard his voice telling him to wake up, telling him he was going to be all right, and the nurses, the nice ones, they reassured him when he drifted back to consciousness for long enough. They told him that Sam was fine, that he hadn't been hurt, but still sometimes the dreams won out, especially since Sam wasn't there. Dean was hurt Sam should be there. Small town Sherriff or not Sam should have been there long before now to spring him, to let him know he was OK. Sam was more than capable of getting himself loose from a Sherriff's office, but he wasn't there and Dean just knew that there was something wrong.

There was something wrong and he had to do something, but it had taken him a day after coming round just to get the strength to lift his head, another two before he had any realistic chance of walking out of there, and if he hadn't spent most of that time asleep he was sure the frustration would have killed him by now. Three days of knowing that there was something wrong with Sam and not able to do anything about it.

Even now just getting out of the handcuff that held him there, retrieving his clothes and slipping out of the room had all but exhausted him. Only sheer determination was moving him forwards on unsteady legs and knees that were so mashed he couldn't bend them. The bandages and dressings that made his body look like a damn patchwork quilt were snagging uncomfortably on his clothing, and his muscles that hadn't been used in too long protested every step. He needed a good stretch but that wasn't going to be happening anytime soon, not if he didn't want to rip various stitches out. He leant against the wall allowing his breathing to even out and swallowing down the urge to cough. He glanced around, not far now to the exit, once he was outside he could find a place to go to ground, rest and try to formulate a plan of what he was going to do next. Probably would have been better if he'd had some sort of plan before dragging himself out of the hospital, but hey, that wasn't how he worked. He'd think of something.

He almost made it, almost, no more than two steps from the exit when he heard someone behind him. He was tempted to just keep going, to try to get away but he knew that he couldn't move fast enough, that there were probably people with walkers who could outrun him at the moment. So he turned to face whoever it was down.

It was one of his nurses Penny and she was hurrying towards him, her hands full.

"Dean," she said breathlessly as she reached him. "Thank goodness I caught you. You know you're not up to being up and around yet?"

"I was just going for a walk," Dean tried, "needed some fresh air."

She smiled at him, "Should really have stayed in your dressing gown and brought your IV with you if that's all you were doing."

"Well I. . ." Dean's eyes drifted down as he tried to come up with something that would stop this nurse from just dragging him back to his room this time with a police guard to accompany the handcuffs.

"You stopped it didn't you?"

Dean looked up again, surprised by the question.

"You and your brother stopped whatever it was that was causing all the damage, that was hurting people. You stopped it and got hurt in the process."

"Yes," he answered softly.

She nodded, "We knew you had."

"We?" Dean questioned.

"Sarah, Suzanne, me, the others don't really believe, despite the evidence they. . ."

"People see what they want to see," Dean stated without bitterness, most of the time it didn't bother him. He was happy that most people could go through their lives completely oblivious to the horrors that he and his brother saw everyday, but sometimes, sometimes when they needed help, or when they just didn't need any damned hindrance so that they could do their jobs, could save people, allow them to live on in their oblivion, then it. . .

Penny was nodding. "Anyway, we want to help. Here," she held a coat forward. "It's my brother's it should fit. Your brother didn't bring you one when he brought in those," she pointed at the clothes he was wearing, "said you'd left yours somewhere." She put down the other things she was carrying and held it up ready for him to put on.

Dean was still too stunned by the fact that he was getting help from a stranger to protest and shifted round awkwardly shrugging it on, fortunately it was fairly light and loose fitting, by the time he'd turned back around again Penny had picked up the bags. "OK, I've got fresh dressings, antibiotics and painkillers, enough to cover you until most things are healed," she stated, "but you're going to have to be careful with a couple of the deeper cuts and your knees. . ." she met his gaze. "You're going to need physio to get full movement back. You know that right."

Dean nodded, he had a good idea. "Thank you," he said giving her a warm smile, reaching out to take the bags.

"Ok so we'd better get going before we're seen."

"We?" Dean asked.

She met his gaze. "Can you bend your knees at all?" she asked pointedly.

"Well no but. . ."

"Then how were you planning to drive?"

"I was. . ."

"And if you were thinking of walking any distance, then explain why you had to take a rest after 50 yards of hospital corridor?"

"I. . ."

"Good that's settled then, I already brought my car round, it's just by the door."

Bemused Dean took a breath and followed the young woman through the exit.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Sam had pretty much stopped thinking and feeling. It was easier that way. He just followed instructions, did as he was told, forced himself not to think. Not to acknowledge the fact that Dean was dead, that he had died alone, that Sam hadn't been. . .He stopped the thoughts from going any further, blocked them with anger or pain or any damn other thing that didn't require him to acknowledge that he had lost the last of his family. That the tragedy of his life that had started with him losing his mother before he was old enough to even remember what she looked like, had now played out to completion, anyone who had ever loved him was gone, Jess, his father, even though they'd fought for the last few years, Sam had never doubted his love and now, the biggest loss of all, because now Dean was. . .and he couldn't even allow himself to think about it because it just hurt too damn much, and there was no relief from it, no closure, nothing but pain.

Sam wasn't even going through the motions of living because that would require something of him to be there in the present and he just wasn't there. He was lost, the loss of Jess, of his father so raw that the wounds on his soul hadn't had nearly enough time to heal, but that had been okay because Dean was holding them together for him and he was pulling them together because he had to be there for Dean. That had been enough, but now there was another gaping wound and no one to help him close it, and no one to close it for, because helping Dean was always part of his own salvation. . . and without Dean. . . . So now he was shutting down, giving up, and although there was a small part of him that knew he shouldn't just lie down and die so easily, that knew Dean would kick his ass for it, he just couldn't. . . .

Maybe if he hadn't have been in jail where there was someone to take away all of his choices, to control his movements, to order him around, maybe then he would have pulled himself together at least enough to call Bobby, to go get Dean, maybe. . . but here it was just easier to give up.

"Put these on," the clothes were thrown at him and only quick reflexes ingrained in him through years of training allowed him to catch them despite his current state of mind. His confusion must have shown in his expression because the question 'why' was answered without him having to ask. "You're going up before the circuit judge." The guard motioned at the clothes, "Your lawyer brought them in; wants you to look respectable."

Sam nodded, mildly surprised that he even had a lawyer. He was even more surprised when he unfolded the bundle and realized that the clothes were his, but not the ones he had been arrested in. How on earth . . .? He almost called the retreating guard back to ask him, to get him to bring in this lawyer so he could find out how. . . and that was when he noticed the folded scrap of paper, the next shock almost enough to make his heart stop. Written on the paper in Dean's neat block script were two words.

'Be ready.'

TBC


	8. Escaping

Author's note: I haven't written anything for over a year. A family tragedy has meant I haven't had the time or the inclination. I'm just getting back into writing now and hope to finish all my existing stories as well as working through some new ones. Feedback is always appreciated- J

**Chapter 8: Escaping**

Sam didn't remember dressing but he must have because he was dressed and he was damn sure that nobody had come in and helped him. He pulled the collar straight and shifted the cuffs of his shirt under the jacket sleeves, Dean had sent him a fairly respectable suit, not that there was much choice in their wardrobe but this was a suit Sam actually liked in as much as he liked anything formal, and only Dean would have known that. So that meant that Dean… Because Dean must have sent the note, Dean must have sent the suit, Dean must have… But he couldn't have because he wasn't… But no one else would…

And that was why he couldn't remember getting dressed, because his mind was just a mass of spiralling thoughts as he tried to rid himself of the certainty that he had lived with for days. The certainty that his brother was dead, It was a certainty that he didn't want to believe, that he'd never wanted to believe, but in those days there had been some sort of acceptance that this was fact, that anything else was just wishful thinking and so now presented with evidence that what he wanted to believe was actually true, his mind was having a difficult time accepting that truth. Not to mention the mental beating up he was starting to give himself for having moped around in jail whilst his brother was waking up in hospital without him, injured and alone. He should've been out of here days ago, should have been at the hospital, should have been the one helping his brother, not the other way around, because if Dean wasn't dead…

It was enough to occupy Sam whilst he was escorted through security, placed in the Deputies' car and driven out onto the back roads. Normally Sam might have been curious as to why he was being transported in a car from the Sheriff's Department rather than a prison van. That curiosity might have been satisfied by the conversation the deputies had with the guards about the Sheriff wanting a special escort for this prisoner but Sam hadn't been listening; he was too focused on his own thoughts to notice anything. In fact it was doubtful that he would have managed to go anywhere if he hadn't been literally pulled in the right direction.

It was the exclamation from the driver that finally made Sam take notice of something other than his own introspection.

"Holy Crap What the. . .!"

"Dammit Mike, Stop Stop!"

The car's brakes squealed, rubber left tyres and stuck to the road as the deputies' car came to a jerking crunching halt, throwing Sam forward against his seatbelt. He gazed forward out of the window and caught enough of the body lying in the road to realise what the commotion up front was all about. The young woman had blood covering most of the top half of her clothing and was lying across the middle of the road. If it hadn't been for the abrupt stop the car would have run straight over her. The deputies took a moment to swallow down the panic and adrenaline and then both of them were out of the car scanning the area, before looking down once more at the body lying across the road.

"Mike, call it in," the more senior of the two, deputy Hallows ordered taking a step towards the body as Mike Cross nodded and made a move towards the car.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Dean's voice was loud clear and one of the most beautiful sounds Sam had ever heard. He looked across and watched as his brother stepped out of the undergrowth, his arm around the throat of a second young woman, his other hand holding a gun to her temple.

"Call anyone," Dean stated, "And young Penny here will meet the same fate as Suzanne." He nodded in the direction of the prone form on the road.

The deputies' hands went automatically to their weapons but stopped short of touching them, neither undoing the leather strap that held the guns in place. They had enough self control and training not to risk doing anything that would provoke Dean to hurt his hostage, but neither were they just going to capitulate. They exchanged nervous glances before deputy Hallows finally spoke. "What do you want?" He asked.

Dean gave a slight smile. "It's quite easy really, I just want my brother." He looked towards the back seat of the deputies' car, trying hard to get a better look of Sam but the windows, the seats, the metal grill, all blocked his view. He looked back at Deputy Cross "So why don't you go back there and let him out for me."

Deputy Cross didn't move, he looked across to Hallows for instructions, but before the older deputy could say anything both deputies' attention was drawn back to Dean as he shifted causing Penny to let out a short squeal. As they turned to look at him he tightened his grip around her neck whilst waving his gun threateningly at each of them in turn, forestalling any temptation for either of them to finish the action of drawing their own weapons. His message was clear, try to draw and I'll shoot you. Hallows raised his hands out in front of him, 'cop school try to calm the crazy man gesture number 5' "Hey now we don't want anyone else to get hurt." Hallows stated, in a tone that he'd probably learnt on the same course as the gesture.

"No one else needs to get hurt," Dean stated, "all I want is my brother and I'll let her go."

"How do we know you won't just kill all of us when you get what you want?" Cross asked, in a tone that indicated that he'd skipped that same training.

Dean turned his best cold glare on the deputy, allowing the question to hang for a minute and for Deputy Cross to realise that he might just have said the wrong thing. He waited for the nervous swallow before answering. "Because if I wanted anyone else dead," he stated. "You would be by now." He looked behind the deputy. "You see that utility pole?" Dean took a second to make sure that both deputies had turned to look up in the direction he wanted them to and that neither of them were going to try anything before shooting out the insulator holding up one of the wires causing it to collapse in a spectacular shower of sparks. Both deputies ducked, disoriented, by the time they turned their attention back to Dean, in response to another short squeal from Penny, Dean was once again pointing the gun at her head. "Now," he said, completely calmly, "Are you going to let my brother out or would you like another demonstration involving a little more blood."

Hallows nodded at his partner. "Let him out," he said.

Deputy Cross was happy to let his partner take the lead and moved to the rear door of the cruiser, opening it so that Sam could step out. He escorted Sam forwards still in cuffs.

The moment was monumental for both brothers, neither had seen the other for days, Sam had almost resigned himself to Dean's death, was still coming to terms with the idea that his brother was alive, even visual proof still not quite enough to quell the fear that this was all some cruel trick of his mind and that in a moment he would wake up or the hallucination he was seeing would disappear in a puff of logic. He found himself blinking, pressing his nails into his palm until it was painful, just so he could be sure, just so he knew, and still somehow the lingering pain and loss wouldn't quite let go.

Dean for his own part needed to see Sam just as much. He knew Sam was alive but he also knew that little brother was not all right. If he had been then Dean wouldn't have had to stage this elaborate scene to get him free. Sam would have, should have made it out on his own, should have been in the hospital waiting for Dean to wake up, should have been the one to help him get out so he didn't have to rely on others, didn't have to wait alone imagining all the bad things that could have. . didn't have to. . .

"Dean," Sam acknowledged, drinking in the sight of his alive, standing there in the flesh brother, but beyond that he didn't quite know what to say, he was still processing, still thinking about. . .

"Sam," Dean returned, but then ever practical he looked back to Deputy Cross. "Take the 'cuffs off," he ordered.

This time Deputy cross just complied, releasing Sam's wrists before stepping back.

"Sam, get their guns," Dean kept the same ordering tone, Sam still didn't look that with it and Dean was worried but he'd have time to check on his brother when they were out of here, until then he was going to rely on the training that they both had to get them through this. The tone worked Sam stepped quickly across, careful not to get between the deputy and Dean's gun and unclipped and removed Cross' sidearm before walking across, now pointing said gun himself at Deputy Hallows, before removing his gun too. He tucked the second gun into the back of his trousers before removing Hallows' radio then returning to cross to do the same.

Dean took a step to the side so that he could get the right angle and shot out the cruisers front tire, as if they had rehearsed it Sam shot out the rear, then moved back to the side window shooting out the glass and then the cruisers internal radio. Sam then moved back towards his brother.

"You OK," Dean asked, finally meeting Sam's gaze properly as his younger brother walked towards him.

Sam almost laughed, last time he had seen his brother his heart had stopped he was clinically dead Sam had thought. . . and he was asking if Sam was OK with a concern in his expression that only Dean could manage. Was he ok? Was he. . ? "Yes," he stated because now that Dean was there for the first time in days he could actually answer yes with some truth in the statement. It was at that point that something else hit him and he couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed something, felt something, done something sooner, because for the first time he saw the young woman's body lying on the floor, saw the frightened looking young woman that Dean was holding around the neck was holding hostage for him, had he really hurt someone, a young woman for him. Sam wouldn't want. . Sam would never. . .

Dean watched Sam's expression change, could almost read his thoughts as his eyes clouded, as he looked first to the body on the road and then to the woman in his arm's "It's OK," he reassured, "we can leave now."

Sam was about to protest when Dean gave a short whistle. "OK Suzanne you can get up."

Sam and the deputies watched in astonishment as the body on the floor rolled over and sat up. Suzanne spat the hair out of her mouth and tried her best to straighten her matted locks, made more difficult by the congealing blood that was there. "Thank goodness for that," she stated, I was starting to struggle to keep still."

Sam remained staring at her as she stood but Dean turned his attention back to the Deputies. "OK," he said, "you two had better start walking, nearest town's back in the direction you came, but of course you already knew that, 3- 4miles should take you an hour tops. Don't turn around; don't try to come after us, unless you want me to shoot someone for real. I'll let both of the young ladies go when me and my brother are free and clear."

Neither Deputy moved so Dean jerked Penny one last time and she squealed obligingly "Move," Dean ordered.

With no other choice Deputies Cross and Hallows turned to look at each other then completed the turn and started walking away.

The second their backs were facing him Dean allowed the gun to droop, sagging slightly forward, as he fought against a myriad of sensations that he had been ignoring for the last half hour, pain exhaustion, nausea, dizziness, the only reason he had managed to remain upright for as long as he had was because far from holding Penny tightly as a hostage, she had been supporting him, neither she nor Suzanne had thought he was fit enough to do this and dammit they had been right, without their help he never would have pulled it off, hijacking a deputies car from a wheelchair would have been a whole lot trickier, still he would've managed it; he had, correction, they had managed it; Sam was there; Sam was safe, there were a number of injuries on his brother that he needed to check out, and he had to do something about that damned haunted look in the kid's eye but nonetheless he was there and all Dean had to do now was to get him back to their car and they were free and clear.

"Sam!" the exclamation was urgent and female and made Sam turn back from watching the deputies move off; he'd wanted to focus his attention back on Dean and the two young women hostages that he suddenly had a lot of questions about, especially since he now recognised Suzanne as one of the nurses who had been looking after his brother at the hospital, but he'd been trained too well. He needed to make sure the potential threat was clear before. . . and now he turned just in time to see Dean's legs give out, Penny grabbed onto the arm that was still around her neck as both Sam and Suzanne moved to support him. None of them had a good grip and all they could do was control his descent to the roadway.

"Dean?" Sam managed his voice already having an edge of panic. It was too much, emotions changing faster than his mind could process, but Dean's eyes were closed his complexion pale. "What's. . .?" he began to ask.

"It's ok," Suzanne stated as she and Penny, checked Dean over, "He's still recovering, shouldn't have been standing for as long as he has. He just needs to rest. We'll get him back on oxygen and an IV and he'll be fine again in a little while."

Sam nodded reaching forward to rest one hand on Dean's arm whilst the other moved to his neck, seeking the reassuring throb of his brother's pulse. It was there, strong, clear if a little faster than he would like. He looked up barely able to hold back the tears that formed in his eyes. He stared at the two young women, not moving his hand. "They told me he was dead." He stated softly. He shook his head. "He's not dead."

Penny met his gaze with empathy, she moved her hand to rest on the top of his. "No, she agreed, "he's not," and with that the hole deep in his gut sealed up.

SNSNSNSN

Author's note just the epilogue to go.


	9. Recovering

Chapter 9 Recovering

Sam was sitting in a comfortable old armchair, a warm drink in his hands, staring at his still unconscious brother as he tried to put thoughts and memories into place. This morning he'd been sitting lost in a cold empty cell, with a brother days dead and a hole inside him so deep that he could have fallen into it and never come up again and now. . .now. . .

He pinched himself again and he'd done it so many times now he had a permanent red mark that would bruise nicely and add to his already mottled collection, not that he could see them all underneath the salve and the dressings and the band aids that the nurses had insisted on coating him in; tutting at how his injuries had not been looked after and the signs of infection in some of them that Sam hadn't even noticed until it was pointed out. Had he been aware of any discomfort?

He couldn't tell them that if he had then he'd welcomed it, encouraged it, because anything that made him hurt physically was welcome in a mind that couldn't deal with the emotional pain. He couldn't admit to them that he'd caused the bruises, torn his own wrists by tugging uselessly at chains that he wouldn't have been in in the first place if he'd had any emotional control, not when they were being so kind, so understanding. Not when they were berating the penal system for its cruel treatment of him, because whatever he had done to himself, they were right about the cruelty. Not the physical cruelty as they thought, but any system that had left him for days thinking his brother was dead when it wasn't true was cruel beyond reason, and so, although the reasoning was wrong, he accepted their empathy, agreed with them that he had been exposed to punishment that amounted to 'cruel and unusual' and should have been banned by the constitution and most of all he accepted the comfort of the young women who had helped his brother, saved his life and continued to keep him safe, because now he knew that Dean was ok Sam was allowed that comfort.

"Please tell me that I didn't pass out into Penny's waiting arms?"

Sam looked up to see Dean watching him and if he was surprised that that was the first thing his brother had to say to him after the ordeal they'd both been through he was too used to his brother to let it show. He gave a half grin. "I would but you kinda did." He stated.

Dean groaned and let his head drop back onto the pillows. "Damn, that means I owe her another twenty bucks."

"She bet that you would pass out while helping me escape?" Sam asked.

Dean had his eyes closed and didn't open them as he replied with a slight nod. "Would've been a hundred if I went before the deputies left."

Sam didn't know quite how to reply to that. Part of him wanted to yell at Dean for being stupid enough to try and break him out of jail while he knew, and had been told by medical professionals, that he was going to keel over in the middle of doing it, whilst a part of him wanted to hug his brother for having the strength to come get him. Then again he knew his brother; he should've been surprised that Dean had waited beyond the point where he could crawl, and at that point of course the guilt kicked in because Dean shouldn't have had to come get him at all. He should have. . ."I'm sorry."

Dean opened his eyes and turned his head, dark circles still stark against pale skin. "What for?"

"That you had to come get me, that I. . ." Sam broke off but Dean did not oblige by filling the silence until he finally looked up and met his gaze.

"So why did I?"Dean asked, making a point of scanning his brother from head to toe, his gaze clearly lingering on the bruises and dressings on Sam's hands and wrists. "What's been going on with you?"

Sam waited for a moment, considered lying to Dean, denying that there had been anything, moving on because it was over now. Dean was here and he was here and they were both safe and there was no point. He met Dean's gaze again and swallowed. Dean had to know why he had left him. "When they arrested me, your heart stopped." Dean's gaze was intense, holding him mesmerised, drawing the truth out of him like every chick flick moment he claimed to hate, but must secretly love because Damn did he have the emotional gaze nailed, the tears almost forming at the empathy he was feeling with the pain of Sam's memory. Dean had been oblivious to it but Sam had lived through every excruciating moment, once for real and then every day since in his waking daydreams, in his sleeping nightmares and even talking about it he felt the pain as though it was happening again. "They tazered me and dragged me away whilst you were. . ." his voice cracked and he was forced to look away for a moment, forced to compose himself "The Sherriff told me you were dead."

"Bastard," the word escaped with a breath from Dean's lips, the sentiment as natural to him as breathing. "I'm sorry Sam, If I'd have known I'd have found a way of letting you know sooner I. . " He stopped because Sam was now blatantly staring at him. "What?"

"Seriously Dean, you're apologising for not telling me you weren't dead," he paused then said again "Seriously?"

Dean grinned.

Sam watched him for a moment, realising what his brother had done, the indignation at his brother's apology had broken through the pain, cut off the emotion before it had started to overwhelm again. Damn but his brother was good at that, sometimes too good for it to be healthy because sometimes you had to let the emotion out, but not this time, Sam had spent too much time with that particular pain. "Oh!"

"So is the chick flick moment over?" Dean asked, and even he was struggling to hide the worry that backed up this particular question. He was worried about Sam, probably more worried now he knew why little brother had spent the last few days so screwed up. He had his own explanation and that would be enough, unless he ever came across a particular Sherriff again but for now he wanted to know if he had to do anything else to help Sam deal, "because I don't think either of us is in any state to hug, and I can't think of another way to cut off your emoting right now."

Sam gave his own grin "Yeah I've noticed all of the fresh bandages, you want to tell me about Penny and Suzanne and how they've been taking care of you?"

Dean grinned back "And you haven't met Susan yet. . ."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL.

Three weeks of physio and Dean was able to bend his knees enough to make driving again at least a possibility. Most of the cuts had healed with the exception of a couple of the deeper gashes and exercise wasn't making him wheeze like an old man, or pass out from standing for too long. Sam had wanted to give it another week but Dean was wary of risking getting caught now that he and Sam were able to get out more. He didn't want to get Penny, Suzanne or Susan or any of the half dozen other people from the town who'd helped them into any trouble, not to mention not wanting to get too comfortable if they stayed here for much longer. He really liked Penny and not just for the help she'd given him, but he knew that forming attachments was out of the question, and it wasn't like he could ever show his face in this town with her. There was no future and they both knew it and staying longer would just make it harder on everyone when the time to leave came.

Sam loaded the car on the pretence that Dean wasn't quite up to it yet, but they both knew it was to give Dean and Penny a little privacy so they could say their goodbyes.

Sam was already in the driving seat when Dean climbed in without protest. His knees would thank him for not insisting that he drive and for once Dean was smart enough to know it.

"Ready to hit the road?" Sam asked.

"Why would I want to hit it? What's it ever done to me?" Dean asked. "Now if you were asking me if I wanted to hit the Sherriff or maybe a rogue Demon then. . ."

"You're a funny man you know that," Sam interrupted, gunning the impala's engine so that it made that beautiful deep throated rumble that made them both feel alive and pulled out onto the blacktop.

"Don't I know it" Dean said settling back contentedly in his seat.

They were together again and mostly whole and healthy and on the road and all was as right in their world as it ever got.

Fin

So that's it finished at last. Thanks to everyone who has supported this story. Let me know what you think- J


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